MAHABAHU BRAHMAPUTRA

Flowing white, betwixt the bosom of its mother…
Out from the heart to the thirsty soil…
Whose quench so serpentine…
Out from the heart to the burlesque of doctrine and strife
They call it ‘Life’
Nevertheless it is flowing still…
Through million miles of low and high;
Wandering through lands of far and nigh.
Melted snow through empires of bandits and sage
O Great River,
Bon Voyage!